


Rescribo

by DrBlueneck



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (because I'm a bad person), Add new characters when they appear, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family, Friendship, Gen, Harry feels, Hermione is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Tom, Not everything is easy to fix in Time Travel, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrBlueneck/pseuds/DrBlueneck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows Voldemort is winning the war. Having nothing left to lose, he decides to cast a spell allowing him to go back in time and, with Hermione's help, to set things right. But what will he do when he's brought face to face with a Tom Riddle who has yet to go down a dark path?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, welcome to Rescribo, hope you'll enjoy your trip!
> 
> WARNINGS: Disregards some parts of HBP and DH. The dead people are still dead, and people who were not mostly are now. There'll be no romance besides the canon ones, as this story's focus is about Family and how to rebuild your life after you lost everything. Please, note that this story is about a dysfunctional family, this is not all flufiness and rainbows. There'll be hardships, death, sorrow, mourning, comfort and friendship. Also, no overpowered!Harry. I'm trying to write something as realistic as possible if this story were to happen in real life (so try to think about it sometimes and ask you "what would I do if I were Harry Potter?").
> 
> Disclaimer : Harry Potter series = JK Rowling. Clear enough?

 

 **Rescribo:** Latin verb - _to rewrite something, redo._

 

* * *

**  
**

_"There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you'd better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you'll never understand what it's saying"_

 

Sarah Dessen, Just Listen

* * *

 

Hermione stares with worry clear in her eyes at the book sitting open on the table. A heavy aura always surrounds it and she was quick to understand the book was full of dark spells. When she tried asking Harry where he found it, he just cast her a glance before muttering blandly, "Hogwarts." Hermione remembers quite well how she yelled at him, white with anger, but also with fear – fear of losing him too. "Hogwarts is under _his_ heel, Harry, you can't go back there!," she kept telling him. But he didn't listen.

It's been a while since he stopped listening to her – listening to anything, really. He was some sort of automaton, constantly seeking a way to destroy _him_ – the man who made his life hell. The man who took everything from him – his family, his friends.

Arms crossed against her stomach, she lets out a weary sigh. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is empty and silent. Only the creaking of doors and the cracking of the floor can be heard throughout the shady house – it's been a long time since even the portraits left their frames. It isn't her favourite place, but it's the only safe one from _him_. And if everything goes according to plan, Hermione and Harry won't be staying there much longer.

She slowly steps forward and sits down in front of the skinny man for whom she worries. She scrutinises him for a long while, eyes lingering on each crease and wrinkle that makes him look older than he really is. His brows are in a constant scowl, giving him an anxious air, and his lips are often twisted in an anguished wince. He doesn't smile anymore, and his once bright green eyes are now dull and empty. Hermione presses a too thin hand over his large one, already about to turn a new page of the book.

"Harry," she says softly, much like a mother would.

He doesn't look up but stops his movement, giving her all his attention. This is something he never refused her since… _since_. She sucks on her lips, her perpetually red-rimmed eyes searching deep in his for a light – a glimmer or anything, really, proving he was still here, with her.

"Harry," she says again, "you worked enough for today, you need to rest…"

Her voice wavers a bit and she's not sure he'll follow her request. When he sighs and pulls off his glasses to rub his eyes, she almost wants to burst into tears: this is his first real reaction of the day.

"I can't, Hermione, I need to be sure this spell will work, that there won't be any complication, that-"

"Harry, please."

She's exhausted, her shoulders stooping under the weight of the last painful years, making her seem even frailer than she actually is. Harry glances at her before looking away, and Hermione feels anger rise, followed by sorrow and then resignation. She whispers all the same, as usual, "It's not your fault."

And like always, she receives no answer.

They stay in the silence one moment longer before Harry starts to remove his hand, so she tightens her grip and intertwines her fingers with his.

"If you don't rest, you'll be useless. You'll need all your strength to make the spell work," she utters with no sympathy.

He goes stiff and eventually nods. He closes the book with his other hand and stands up in a loud cracking noise coming from his bones, getting a wince form Hermione. She almost feels bad when he stands there, arms dangling, not knowing what to do with himself. He lets her steer him to the living-room, pressing softly her fingers when she makes him lie on the dented couch. His eyes are wide open, staring at the dark ceiling. He always has trouble finding sleep, seeing in the ceiling's shadows the souls of the slain he couldn't save, slithering like snakes in the dark nooks.

Hermione is patient and keeps his hand tight in her, stroking his head with the other until his eyelids flutter shut. She hums wordless songs, head resting on his chest, waiting for his breath to calm down and counting his heartbeats. _He's alive,_ she reassures herself, _weak, but alive_.

"We'll manage, Harry… We'll manage," she promises him.

He falls asleep, squeezing her hand in his callous fingers.

_To be continued…_


	2. November 1936

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters will start with some sort of flashback showing you why Harry and Hermione are now alone and desperate to fix their present (or is it future now?) It's to better understand some references that'd leave you in the dark otherwise.
> 
> Also, English is not my first language, so bear with me if you spot mistakes! I try my best to correct them, but well...
> 
> Enjoy the story!

 

" _They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself."_

 

Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol

 

* * *

 

Ronald Weasley was not a coward.

He struggled very young to not live in his brothers' shadows, and he tried to assert himself, eventually becoming a talented – although a tad arrogant – young man.

Maybe it was that arrogance that pushed him to accept the dangerous mission to infiltrate the Malfoy Manor…

But Ron knew one thing: they couldn't always ask Harry Potter to sacrifice himself for a good cause. He trusted Zabini with his information – Snape had been a great spy when alive, and Zabini was nowhere near his level, but he was willing enough to help them – and the former Slytherin always knew when to back down from a doomed plan. So it was a determined Ron who Apparated a few miles away from the Manor. He knew what he was doing – we didn't make Auror for naught. Zabini assured the Manor would be empty for at least three hours – something to do with a dark ritual where all the Death Eaters were needed. So he allowed himself two hours to complete his mission. Half an hour to arrive to the Malfoy Manor and infiltrate it; forty-five minutes to look for the Horcrux supposed to be hidden there; half an hour to leave. He also planned a fifteen minutes delay if something was to occur.

As expected, it only took thirty minutes for Ron to reach the Manor, but what he didn't expect was the group of Death Eaters awaiting him in front of the large black wrought iron gates. He took precautions, though! Apparating only several miles away to not be spotted, and according to Zabini, no Death Eater should've been present! Admittedly, Ron wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he wasn't completely stupid either.

He tightened his grip on his wand, glaring at every single Death Eater surrounding him. A sardonic smile tugged at his lips. Obviously, someone had betrayed them. And worst of all, Ron didn't even know if Zabini was the real culprit.

Ron raised his wand and started casting hexes and curses, fighting even though he knew it was the end for him. His only regret was not taking the time to tell Hermione how much he loved her. He would never be able to give her the ring he always carried around in his pocket, trying to summon the courage to ask her to marry him.

He dodged a red flash – _Cruciatus_ , he thought – when a Death Eater pushed a slim looking figure towards him.

"Come on Weasley, show us what you can do."

He didn't have time to say anything as a green light got him on the chest, and his widened eyes met the wet ones of the young Death Eater who just sealed his fate.

Ronald Weasley preferred to believe until the very end that Ginny was put under the Imperius Curse.

 

* * *

Harry drops the heavy spell book in front of Hermione. When she looks up, she can see a new light shining in his eyes – hope. Her heart skips two beats before thumping madly against her breast. She stands up with shaky hands and asks in a chocked voice, "You're done?" He solemnly nods and she needs to take a deep breath to regain her composure. She eventually nods back and anxiously reads the page he's showing her. A few lines down in the text, Hermione can't help but frown at what she's reading.

"This is the final charm allowing a Time-Turner to work… How is it going to help us?"

Harry shakes his head.

"No, it's not quite that… I did some research, this spell _reloads_ a Time-Turner; this is why we can travel back an hour or a day in time. The Time-Turner could work without it, but will only go back a few hours in the past."

Hermione stays still a few seconds, astonished. Not because Harry just told her how a spell works – even though the exchange of roles is a bit strange – but because this was the first time _since Ron_ that Harry spoke that much.

"I understand why we'd need a Reloading Spell, but I don't see how we could travel back that far in the past with a Time-Turner, Harry, it doesn't work like this," she eventually utters, lacking her previous enthusiasm. She really thought he found a way to change everything. Harry's dark smirk catches her attention and she's about to ask him if he's alright when he opens the book at a new page, showing her another spell.

"Rescribo," she reads aloud. "This is…"

Her face goes white and she clings to the edge of the table, feeling her knees wobbling. She looks at him with distress-filled eyes begging him to refute what she knows is the truth.

"Harry… If we cast this spell, we won't ever be able to come back…"

"I know."

Hermione draws in a shaky breath.

"Rescribo… A rewriting… I…"

She swallows. "I don't know if I could do that," is what she wants to tell him. Hermione was sure until now they would only go back in time to kill Voldemort before he could do any harm, and then come back to their changed present, where everything would be alright. Where she would get back to her family, her friends, and Ron.

But as she stares in Harry's tormented eyes, she chocks back on her words. Had there been another way, he wouldn't ask her to sacrifice their present. Because for him, it'd mean give up on meeting his parents for real. She feels selfish and bile rises in her throat. What is the present of two individuals compared to the future of an entire world?

Nothing, and she knows it.

So Hermione does what she always did.

"When do you think we can cast the spells?"

She believes in him.

**xox**

A week passes before everything is ready. It's been a few hours since Harry went out, and Hermione keeps staring at the hand wearing his name. It points 'Mortal Peril', like every time he steps outside. But as long as it wasn't pointing 'Dead', Hermione knows she doesn't have to worry – much.

Eventually, the hand turns and she holds her breath until it stops on 'Home'. Straight after she can hear footsteps coming towards the living-room where she almost leaps on him, thoroughly checking him as she angrily asks where the hell he's been.

"I went to Gringotts," he hurriedly says to placate her.

Seeing her bewilderment, he explains himself while tossing her a plump purse before pulling off his jacket and putting on the coat she gives him.

"Since our trip will be… permanent… surely you know we'll need resources to survive in a world we know nothing about. So, I emptied my vaults."

She weights up the purse. _It's fairly light_ , she muses.

"Bottomless purse, I guess?"

A shadow of a smile graces his lips before vanishing.

"Of course. But most of it will have to be melted because of their dates."

"Oh, right," she thinks aloud, thankful Bill explained to her how the Wizarding currency was made. "All the coins bear the year of production and the name of the goblin who forged them… I nearly forgot about that. Are you sure it's a good idea to bring them with us? They'll see that two series of the same coins are in circulation…"

"No need to worry, we'll only use the series from the early sixteen-hundreds. I know for a fact that these series were completely untouched by the Potters; they had a lot of other series to go through," he says while making sure they didn't forget anything.

"If you say so. And don't worry about the Melting spells, I know a couple that'll help us."

As one man, they start moving the furniture to leave a large empty space in the middle of the room. They are dressed in plain dark colours, a long coat covering most of their clothes. Hermione earlier shoved two robes in a sac she now keeps to her arm, in case they'd land in the Wizarding World. They don't know where they'll appear, nor do they know if they'll be near their starting point – 12 Grimmauld Place.

While she waits in the centre of the room, Harry draws a circle around them with Floo Powder.

"What's its purpose?"

"An advice I found at the bottom of the page. Our goal is to find Voldemort, so it's more likely we'll find him with the powder guiding us."

She clutches the bag. "Do you know where he is in the past?"

Harry finishes drawing the circle and answers after a short pause, "I think so. Professor Dumbledore showed me, a few years ago… Wool's Orphanage."

He stands up and steps into the circle, his wand drawn out. He was careful to learn the two spells they'd need but never practised them – too many risks. This try will be their only chance to succeed, and he cannot imagine what would happen if he was to make a mistake.

"We need some kind of container so that the spell can load itself… What will we use?" the witch muses aloud, trying to hide her increasing worrisome.

Harry is perfectly aware Hermione knows everything about what they're doing – he saw her reading the spells over and over again to better understand them. But he doesn't say anything and follow her instead on her tactic to hide his own concerns. "Since we don't have a Time-Turner, we'll use my wand."

Hermione looks at him as though he were crazy. The wand's a wizard most important belonging, and when broken, it's always hard to find a good substitute. "What if it's destroyed when we arrive?" she points out.

The silence stretches between them. It's not as if he likes the idea, but it's not as if they have a better choice either. Something magical is needed, and despite all the rubbish artefacts stored in Grimmauld Place, nothing is good enough to realise a spell of this strength. Even a Time-Turner wouldn't have sufficed for them to go back more than fifty years in the past.

Eventually, he shrugs. "I'll play it by ear," he says before adding, less sure, "You ready?"

When she nods, he tightened his grip on his wand, focuses, and casts in a strong voice, _"Reverso!"_

For a second, they allow themselves to doubt, to think the spell didn't work, but when a bluish light gathers at the tip of his wand, they know they can't doubt anymore. The difficulty for Harry lies in focusing all his attention on the ball of magic taking shape. He knows exactly when he has to cast the second spell for them to land at the right moment in the past… at least, he hopes so.

"Hermione! When I cast the second spell, I want you to say our destination," he yells as the ball of sheer magic rises gusts of wind in their circle. He doesn't have the time to wait and see if she understands. Hoping everything will go as planned, Harry roars the next spell with all his might, changing forever both their destinies.

_"RESCRIBO!"_

At the same time, he thinks he heard Hermione shouting "Wood's Orphanage!" and widens his eyes, horrified.

There's a flash of light and the next second, 12 Grimmauld Place's living-room gets back to its eerie silence, a burnt circle in its middle marking the previous existence of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

**xox**

They land in a heap in a dirty back alley, the cold hard floor cutting their breath. Hermione managed to soften her fall by landing on her shoulder. She massages it, wincing, and helps Harry back to his feet, repairing his glasses in a mechanical gesture before he clasps her wrist and pulls her hand down.

"No magic until we know where we are," he whispers, hiding his own – still whole, he notices – wand. She bits her lip and berates herself – she can't believe she forgot such a precaution. Harry glances around the wall leading to the street, looking for something. He turns back to her and asks, exhausted, "What was the destination you shouted?"

"Wood's Orphanage?" she asks more than states.

"It's what I thought."

With a sigh, he remembers the time he said "Diagonal Alley" instead of "Diagon Alley" and finds a bit of hope. If they are lucky, they aren't that far from the orphanage.

Leaving him to his thoughts, Hermione decides to investigate the back alley and finds a newspaper in a dumpster. She leans towards it and reads the date.

"Harry…"

He grunts, showing he's listening.

"What's the year we're supposed to be in?"

"1926," he answers without a pause. "Why?"

She shoves the newspaper in his hands before letting herself slip against the wall down to the floor, weary.

"We're late."

On the Muggle newspaper – considering the unmoving pictures – Harry can read _November 29, 1936_. He swears, throws the newspaper away and restrains himself from punching the wall, pressing his forehead against the cold bricks instead, next to Hermione.

"How do we do, now, to prevent his birth?"

Hermione is surprised by the words leaving her mouth against her will, in a flat tone, "We could kill him."

A silence follows her statement, and she can feel horror rising through her when she understands that Harry _is considering killing a child_.

"Harry, that was impulsive, I don't thin-"

"But it's still the only solution."

"No! Harry, you can't kill a child, he hasn't-"

"He would've done it without dithering. He already tried," he argues.

She quickly stands up and takes his hand, putting it against her barely showing belly.

"Don't ask me to do that, Harry… Not when I'm a mother-to-be."

And her voice wavers at the thought that someone could want to take her unborn child's life – _Ron's child_ – even though it's innocent. She feels Harry stiffens and she lets go of his hand. He takes a long breath and stuffs his hands in his coat's pockets.

"Let's go. We've got to find the orphanage to at least keep an eye on him."

In the corner of his eyes, he sees her opening her mouth to reply but he snaps at her, "I'm not going to kill him! I just want to… be sure he won't cause any trouble. We'll see what we'll do with him while going there."

Reassured, she drops her head and follows him, grabbing his elbow to not lose him.

She dares not tell him that for a second, he became the man he loathes the most.

_To be continued…_


	3. November 1936 pt. 2

" _I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo._  
 _"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."_

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

* * *

Ginny wasn't a bad girl. She knew it.

It's true that she could be selfish and sometimes even mean, but who wasn't ever? Ginny was, before anything else, a girl who cherished her family. She grew up with intrusive and protective brothers, always there when she needed them. For that, she would forever keep them in her heart.

When she often was consumed with dread in those times of war, she just had to peer at the mantelpiece where a picture sat, showing her whole family smiling and waving at her. A grin then stretched her lips, brightening her hazel eyes.

And then Harry proposed to her. She said yes, obviously. He was _the one_. He made her laugh, made her feel alive... She was going to be his wife, she'd give him the family he so craved for.

Ginny wasn't a bad girl, even though it'd been a few weeks since she started slipping out into the night to the Malfoy Manor, pledging her allegiance to the one wanting her future spouse dead.

She had her reasons, she wasn't stupid! She didn't believe in You-Know-Who's ideals. But if following his orders would keep Harry alive ("because", he promised her, "society lacks Pureblood, and even though young Potter isn't one because of his Mudblood of a mother, his lineage can't be lost that way") then Ginny was ready to kneel before him, kiss the bottom of his robes and bear his mark.

But when she learnt her initiation ceremony was to kill Ronald Weasley, she tried to protest.

"He's my brother, I just can't–"

"See it as a merciful gift from the Dark Lord. Either you kill him quickly and painlessly, or one of us will do it, and trust me, they won't be tender with this blasted weasel," had sharply said Draco Malfoy. "You want to protect your stupid Potter? This is the price. Being a Death Eater is no game, you silly girl." He had held no sympathy for her, glaring at her with disdain. He never understood why she would put herself in this situation, having a whole family and the blasted Order standing behind her. To him, she was just the same stupid Blood Traitor he sneered at in Hogwarts. He never had said truer words concerning the youngest Weasley.

Later, as she raised her wand against Ron (kind and sweet Ron who, despite his teasing, always held her tight in his arms when the thunder roared in the night and she was too scared to step outside her room), she wasn't under any spell, other than love's.

Of course, Harry discovered it (bloody Goyle, unable to keep his mouth shut under torture). He didn't want to believe it, but when he saw her arm... There was no place left for doubt. Harry didn't want her anymore. Her mother couldn't look her in the eye without weeping. Her family turned their backs on her. George had been the fiercer one. He almost struck her, mad eyes full with disgust, and Charlie had to restrain him.

After that, at night, when looking at the Weasley family's picture hidden under her pillow, she didn't feel like smiling anymore.

Ginny wasn't a bad girl. She knew it. But her choices were.

**xox**

Harry was right in thinking they couldn't be _that_ far from Wool's Orphanage. Although the orphanage is only a few streets from where they landed, they spend all their morning looking for it in the wrong places, arguing about what to do concerning Voldemort ("Tom, Harry. It's his name, use it. You can't go around calling a child a Dark Lord!" - "Well, he _is_ one, if I recall right." - "Harry! Don't be so pessimistic." - "Realistic, Hermione. There's a difference, trust me.") and eventually decided to adopt him. For Harry, it's a good way to keep an eye on the child and strike at the slightest show of darkness. For Hermione, it's a way to ensure her friend won't go wayward with the kid and won't lose himself to madness and cruelty.

They eventually stop in front of the unwelcoming and dismal-looking building across the street. High railings frame the orphanage and the gates are wide open, as if inviting the passer-by to come in. But no-one enters, nor do they seem to notice the drab building.

Hermione takes advantage of his uncertainty about crossing the road and asks, "How old is he? Ten years old?"

"He's nine," Harry whispers. "Born on December 31."

She nods and calculates quickly. "So we have about a year before he gets his Hogwarts letter, and a little more than six months before he goes there. One year and a half to make sure he will never become a Dark Lord..."

The young man doesn't flinch when she sighs heavily, completely dishearten.

"Harry, that's not enough," she says at last.

And he knows it. To be honest, he never thought they ever had a chance to change a being as vile as Voldemort.

"That's why I wanted to prevent his existence," he bitterly spits.

Without looking at her, he knows she's judging him. So he takes a deep breath and steps down from the pavement, leading the way to the orphanage. They cross the gates in a confident stride and once they're standing in front of the massive door closing the entrance of the building, they look at each other. Who will knock and put their crazy plan into gears for real?

Hermione watches him carefully, searching for something on Harry's face that would tell her what to do, but sees nothing more than the years of useless fighting; nothing more than the weariness not leaving him since his fiancée took the wrong path; nothing more than the huge regret for not having been _strong enough_. As she rises her hand to reach for the large bear door knocker, ready to lift the burden of a new decision from his shoulders, Harry beats her to it and knocks thrice with a certain hand, not letting her see his biggest fear.

To fail once again.

A middle-aged woman whose hair is already greyish after years of taking care of children hurriedly opens the door, as if afraid the two visitors would leave after all.

She lets them in with effusion, already getting started on the potential children who'd bring them happiness before they could even introduce themselves. She stops her soliloquy to finally introduce herself to her speechless visitors.

"Mrs. Cole. I'm the matron of the orphanage," she says in a slight smile.

She curtly shakes Harry's hand as he forces out, "Harry Dursley."

Hermione squeezes his elbow as if to remind him to not act suspiciously. They thought for a long time of the pseudonyms they'd use for the adoption, not wanting to bring the attention of the wizard community on Tom and them for as long as possible. Obviously, Harry wanted to use his mother's maiden name, Evans, knowing the Potter name was unusable in this time. But Hermione refused, telling him his mother was surely a curious person and would search for any other wizard or witch in her family, and surely finding a Harry Evans would do them no good. The same went for Granger. Knowing herself – and having lived through it already – the future Hermione would with no doubt want to know if she was the only Muggleborn of her line. So she suggested they use his aunt's name, Dursley, which never appeared in the magical world ("It'll only be for the muggle adoption, Harry, I swear! After that, we'll use another name to blend in with the Wizard community and no-one will know we're Riddle's guardians," argued Hermione). Thus Harry accepted with great repugnance to use it.

"Hermione Dursley," she says with a acknowledging nod to the matron. "I'm his sister," she feels compelled to clarify.

Mrs. Cole's cheerful expression flattens a bit and she looks at them with pursed lips. Maybe they should've play the married couple who couldn't conceive, but the idea leaves a sour taste in their mouths. Hermione knows she can't play the loving wife, not with her lover's child in her womb and his death is still so fresh. And Harry doesn't know how to express anything else than depression, exhaustion, anger and disgust. His smiles are nothing more than winces and his touch once welcoming and full of affection is now firm and clumsy. Playing the happily married husband after Ginny's betrayal is too much to ask from him.

So Hermione is quick to reassure the matron, a polite smile painted on her lips.

"His wife went to visit her family in France – her poor mother is unwell. So I promised to accompany Harry to the orphanage; my little brother tends to be awkward when left alone in society," she utters in a courteous laugh.

Mrs. Cole nods along, understanding illuminating her blues eyes.

"Oh dear, I hear you! I had to deal with these kind of boys here. They try to show they're strong and responsible, but in the end, without a woman to guide them, they're a mess! Just this year, when Billy – it was one of our oldest orphans – found himself a job and left, he sent me shortly after a letter saying he was to be married to a girl he found on the street. The poor dear doesn't know what she signed for," she tuts as she lead them through the maze of corridors.

They pass a few women sweeping the floors or taking care of toddlers. They all acknowledge the matron by respectfully nodding at her and glance at the visitors, quickly pushing the young children in front of them, putting the young boys and girls on display.

Hermione clears a throat to catch Mrs. Cole's attention as she's already leading them to a playroom where toddlers are entertaining themselves.

"You see, my brother already knows the child he wants to adopt."

Mrs. Cole frowns. "Really? I never saw you here..."

Harry is prompt to answer, taking a chastised look. "I know. We recently learnt a boy, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was born here and still lives here. He happens to be our cousin's child. She disappeared years ago after a conflict with our uncle and we never saw her again... Had we known sooner she gave birth to a child, we would never have left him to live in this orphanage for so long."

"Not that it's a bad establishment," is quick to clarify Hermione to soften Harry's bluntness.

The matron widens her eyes, shocked.

"You're from the same family? I knew his mother was alone and broke away from her family – and I'm sure she worked in a circus – but to think _you_ areher relatives..."

Harry doesn't miss the way she puts an emphasis on the 'you' and asks, "Why is that?"

"It's just that... You seem to be from a good family," she starts, her eyes trailing on their plain but high quality coats, "but this boy... He's so cloistered, shut off from any interactions... To tell you the truth, he worries me. The other children avoid him."

The witch and the wizard exchange a discreet glance. Are they too late? Is Tom Riddle a lost cause?

No, Hermione reasons. The other kids may be scared of him because he might have manifested some accidental magic. This could explain why he's so shut off.

The matron however leads them to a small room as morose as the rest of the building. She knocks on the door before opening it softly, brows furrowed.

"You knows the rules, child, you mustn't close the door during daylight," she starts in a weary voice, showing it's not the first occurrence. She steps aside and Harry can see a little boy sitting cross-legged, a book balanced on his knees, seeming to ignore the old matron. "There's some visit for you, Tom. Mr. Dursley, Miss Dursley..."

She gestures for them to come in, and after being sure they don't need anything, she moves down the corridor to let them talk with more privacy.

Meanwhile, Tom looked up from his book, puzzled. He never has visitors, and when some parents want to adopt him, they withdraw after a few days, leaving him once again in the orphanage.

Disappointed, he prefers to go back to his book and ignores the two adults in hope they'll get annoyed with him and leave. However, when he meets the green eyes of Mr. Dursley, he feels like a electric wave going through his skull and he breathes in, hands curled into tight fists and his book forgotten.

"You're... not normal, are you?" he asks the man in a shaky voice. He never felt something like that before.

He has a hard, piercing look. His jaw is clenched, and Tom finds it hard to imagine the man smiling. He gazes at him with no liking in his eyes – just emptiness, indifference and a hint of something Tom's not quite sure to understand.

Miss Dursley seems to be softer and her chocolate brown eyes are hold more warmth than the icy mint ones of the man. He can read pain in them – the same he sees in his reflection every time a family rejects him – and a slight smile curves her pink mouth, brightening her face and showing kindliness. Tom wants to hide behind her to escape Mr. Dursley's inquiring gaze.

"No," Harry answers. "And neither are you."

With a flourish, the door left open by Mrs. Cole closes and the child's eyes are wide-open. His rational mind tells him that it's not possible, that there must be an logical explanation to what he just saw. But a little voice whispers to him that he often did the same thing, when angered or frightened; that things happened that he couldn't control.

He leaps from his bed and takes a step towards the two strangers before whispering, enthralled, "Magic... You're a magician, right? Am I one too?"

He gives all his attention to Miss Dursley who attempts to approach him, but Mr. Dursley keeps her by his side, catching her elbow. They glance at each other and Mr. Dursley eventually lets go of her arm and she steps forward and kneels in front of him to be near his size.

"Wizard – and witch for me – is the word you'll want to use. And yes, you're one of us."

Hermione takes it upon herself to explain the situation to the boy ("Your mom was our cousin, she too was a witch. This is why we'd like to take care of you from now on.") while Harry stands away from the two for the whole discussion, and the young Tom can't hide his uneasiness when his eyes met the inquiring ones of the man who seems utterly unhappy.

Harry's already second-guessing their actions – he doesn't remember seeing such a childish and enthralled look from Riddle, in the Pensieve. He remembers seeing a poorly hidden greediness and an arrogant boy. Maybe stepping in earlier in History changed some facts. For the better, he finds himself wishing.

When they leave the room to speak privately with Mrs. Cole, Tom can't strop himself from grasping Miss Dursley's hand, wanted to show her his gratitude. He's surprised when she flinches and abruptly pulls her hand from his, her face losing all colours. She rubs the inside of her arm, lips tugged down despite trying her best to smile.

"Sorry. You surprised me..."

And Tom can only nod, hands hastily shoved in his pockets to prevent another lapse.

Further down the corridor, once they're alone with Mrs. Cole, they confirmed their desire to adopt the young Tom Riddle, telling the matron they'll come back later in the week to get him. "We have to sort some things out before we can take him in," they explain.

"I understand, my dears. I'll get the papers ready while awaiting your return. I'm glad that a family wants to take care of him, the poor child is so introverted..."

Harry bits the inside of his cheek, wanting to sharply tell her, "This child is a future mass murderer." But he doesn't and try to remember his newfound mantra: he's innocent until proven guilty. Innocent until proven guilty. Innocent. Innocent.

To tell the truth, he doesn't know whether it makes a difference. At this thought, he recalls little Tom, head hunched between his shoulders, his big brown eyes shining when Hermione produced some sparks with her wand.

And Harry wonders for the first time since landing in 1936 if the monster wasn't himself.

**xox**

After finding a dark alley where no-one could see them, the two former Gryffindors Apparate around Northumberland, where a cottage stands proudly on bare plains, facing the rough sea. They're alone on the coast and the first towns are several miles away.

"Is it the Potters' cottage you told me about? Shore Cottage, was it?"

Harry nods and retrieves a copper key from an inner pocket to open the barely used door.

"You're sure no-one will come aware of our little 'borrowing'?"

"Of course. The last time I came here with... her," he has to stop, his voice chocking, then continues, "the cottage has already been abandoned for decades. I searched around a little, curious to know why."

He opens the door in a loud creak. The hinges have been exposed for too long to the salty air with no-one to maintain them.

"It would seem the Potter family left the English east coast and has been living in the west for many years already. More Wizard families there."

Hermione laughs a little.

"There aren't any Muggles here, so good luck on finding Wizards!"

They venture into the cottage and Hermione's already casting cleaning spells while Harry sorts out the meagre belongings they chose to take with them.

"So, this is it. Our new home... It's less gloomy than Grimmauld Place," Hermione mutters.

Harry looks around. Shore Cottage is spacious and well lit by the large windows framing it. They'll need to purchase thick curtains to block out the morning sun, he thinks as his gaze trails upon the dusty panes. He withdraws his wand and casts a Scouring Charm on them. But nothing happens.

He frowns and repeats the gesture, more slowly, and utters the charm with clarity.

Some sparks spurt from the tip of the wand before dying.

"Hermione..."

"Yes?," she calls back from another room.

"My wand doesn't work anymore," he says, jaded.

That crowns it all. Something has to happen when everything is alright. He glares at his wand as Hermione appears next to him and almost rips it from his hands to better examine it.

After a while, she gives it back to him, looking apologetic.

"I guess we'll have to stop by Ollivander while we go purchase some clothes for Tom," she says.

Harry sighs before putting his wand away in a drawer.

"Hm. We'll go tomorrow if we're finished with the house."

And maybe it's time for him to change it. After all, this wand always linked him to the Voldemort of his time. Maybe he'll be able to get rid of his so-called destiny... If everything goes as planned, there won't be a prophecy anymore. No more Voldemort. No more scar.

He casts a last glance to his wand before closing the drawer, a sick feeling upturning his stomach.

He dares not admit he's scared of what this new life has in stock for him.

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

_"Time is the longest distance between two places."_

Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie

* * *

 

Grimmauld Place was silent, all its inhabitants sleeping upstairs or on the ground floor – anywhere they could find a spot, really.

Hermione came downstairs to get herself a glass of water, awoken by Ron's snoring. She preferred to let him sleep peacefully, knowing a big mission awaited him in the following days. She didn't know what – one of the essential rule of the Order of the Phoenix, since Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody's death, was to never disclose one's mission, even to close family members such as wife or husband.

She was surprised to find Fleur in the poorly lit living-room, curled up against the armrest of the sofa, a book on her laps. She didn't hear her coming.

Hermione softly called her name and Fleur looked up, a slight smile upon her lips. She lost most of her snobbish ways after Bill was attacked. She softened up, winning Hermione's and Ginny's sympathies. Oh, they still found ways to anger each other. But Fleur could count Hermione among her small circle of friends without having to think twice.

"You can't sleep, Hermione?" Her pronunciation had improved, her thick French accent only showing up when she spoke too quickly or was overwhelmed. She could thank Harry and Hermione for the linguistic lessons they agreed to exchange, late at night, when sleep eluded them. Both of them learnt Fleur's language in the hope of easing the homesickness that sometimes got to the older woman, a picture of the young Gabrielle always in a pocket near her heart.

Hermione smiled back and took a sit besides her. She pointed the book and asked, "What are you reading?"

"A novel written by Thomas Durand. _Premier souffle_ ," she grinned. "It reminds me of Beauxbâtons..."

Intrigued, Hermione read the summary but quickly got bored. A fantasy novel. Not her cup of tea. Seeing her disdainful look, Fleur scowled before shrugging. She was too exhausted to start bicker-ing. She got back to her reading, forgetting the world around her to better melt into a universe where wars were long buried and magic was blossoming freely. She was interrupted once again by Hermione. "I never heard of him. Durand," she tested the word. "Is he French?"

Fleur nodded and put her book on the armrest. Hermione instantly recognised her look and bit back a moan. It was the look saying "I'm going to explain you something and you'll listen, then thank me." She was surprised in the end to find the unexpected lesson interesting.

"Do you know that Durand is a fairly common name in France? It's a bit like your John Doe! You know that I'm really interested in names' etymology to better understand where people come from and their origins..."

Hermione wanted to retort it was no wonder considering the meaning of the name Delacour, but kept quiet. She really liked that one time when Fleur did a whole lecture on what a delightful name 'Hermione' was and how her parents saw right.

"Of course," the blonde continued, "it comes from the same root as the verb _durer_ – which means 'to last'," she said as if not knowing such a thing was absurd. "In a nutshell, it describes someone who's obstinate. Back in the day, they often translated it by 'the one who must last.' Interesting how names can define a person, right?" she finished, chin raised, before going back for the last time to her reading, completely ignoring Hermione.

The latter just shook her head, amused. She'd stock this piece of information in a corner of her mind, sure to forget about it one day.

Hermione stayed some more time besides Fleur before standing up and leaving to find her glass of water and then got back to Ron.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

 

They need three days to make the cottage a liveable place. Hermione, being the only one possessing a usable wand, did most of the work, casting spells here and there while Harry repaired the exterior of their new home. The faraway memory of their fifteens spent scrubbing up and down the Noble and Most Ancient Black House's ancestral abode comes to them. But Shore Cottage, despite its many years without being lived in, proves to be rather comfortable. They're not surprised to come upon an enchanted crockery washing itself, nor are they astonished when the doors refuse to open up as long as the wizard and witch don't tickle the handle. In and of itself, the cottage is much more welcoming than Number Twelve Grimmauld Place ever was.

They take advantage of the newly reconfigured space to melt the unusable and too old coins. In the end, they decide to only keep two distinct series – one from Sesterces and another from Maravedis – and as promised, Hermione indeed knows a Fusion spell that does the trick and few hours later, gold, silver, and bronze bars find their way back in the bottomless purse.

The hardest part was to set the fireplace to work, but they're quickly reassured when they realise the Potters never took the time to disconnect the Floo Network. In a few wand movements, Hermione secures the Network so that only them – and later Tom – can access it. She then lights a fire with a controlled "Incendio!" and flames burst to live in the hearth. She opens a cupboard next to the fire-place and finds a forgotten old purse. Hermione pulls it out and calls Harry.

"There are at least two handful of Floo Powder left," she says while assessing the contents. "Enough for a trip to the Leaky Cauldron."

The witch and warlock come up to the fire. Harry's the only one knowing how to use Side-Along Apparition since Hermione never managed to achieve the exact control needed.

He grabs a handful of silver Powder and throws it into the fire, watching the flames turn to a vivid green. "I'll go first," he says authoritatively.

It's a reflex since Ron left them: protecting Hermione, his last friend at all costs. At first, the witch was offended and kept arguing she could take care of herself. But she dropped the case when Harry became more withdrawn, finally accepting that the wizard needed to be there for her; needed to know she ran no risk.

He steps into the green hearth, utters his destination and vanishes in a spluttering of flames.

Hermione waits for a minute as usual. If the fire dies, it means imminent danger (it was Fred and George who showed them this little trick, at first just a prank to annoy the people wanting to use the Burrow's fireplace), but if nothing happens, she can follows him. As the fire keeps burning, she fi-nally throws her handful of Powder, steps forward and cries, "Leaky Cauldron!" A blink of the eye later she's face to face with Harry who's already reaching for her hand to help her out.

The pub surprisingly hasn't changed that much. In spite of the candelabrums floating above their head, the room is still in an enjoyable dimness. The tables are pushed against the walls near the win-dows dotted with finger marks from wandering hands. Despite the likeness, they find it hard to reconnect it with the memory they have of the pub after Diagon Alley was destroyed, closing the access of the Muggle world to the fleeing wizards and witches.

The real difference strikes them when they approach the counter behind which a Tom with barely grey hair – and that was surprising – welcomes them with a grin, glossing a glass between his skilled hands.

The two travellers have a shock. It's the first person from their present they come across in the past. It's not like with Tom Riddle – they never knew him, never shared a friendly talk with him. They need a second to recollect themselves and smile back politely – or at least, Harry tries without much success.

"I never saw you 'round here before," the jolly barman starts. "Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron!"

Unconsciously, Harry holds a hand to his brow to flatten his fringe in an attempt to hide his scar, forgetting for a short moment that here, he is no-one.

"We just moved in, we've been living in France these last years," Hermione offers in a light-hearted tone.

She learnt their Wizard cover by heart while they were isolated at Shore Cottage, and Harry did the same. They can't allow themselves to turn up from no-where and start a life as if everything was normal in a community as secluded as the Wizarding one. Thus they made the most of the knowledge acquired while attending Hogwarts in their fourth year and invented themselves a life as students coming from Beauxbâtons.

"Really! You don't have an accent though," Tom points out as he takes a new glass.

"We lived in London our whole childhood, but our parents decided it would be best for us to be sent to Beauxbâtons for our magical studies. More diversity," Harry explains as he places four Sickles on the counter. "Two butterbeers please."

The barman is quick to execute himself and swiftly puts two uncorked bottles in front of them, adding two glasses as an afterthought when glancing at the two well-clothed strangers.

"Oh, then welcome back, I guess!"

Harry nods his thanks and Tom understands his presence is no longer wanted and leaves to cater to his other patrons. Hermione sips her drink – it's been a while since they last sat down around a good drink – discreetly glancing around.

"We have to go to Gringotts before anything else," Harry finally says.

"I hope they won't put us through too much trouble..."

He grunts and finishes his butterbeer. "You're worrying too much. They won't give a shite about knowing where the money comes from as long as we didn't steal it from them."

She plays with her glass, thoughtful. And Harry remembers that she never had the chance to have a vault in the Wizarding Bank because of her Muggle-Born statute, and could only open an account when marrying into a Wizard family. His eyes travels down her arm to land upon her left hand, bared of any ring, and he looks away, feeling ill at ease.

"After that, we'll go straight to Ollivander’s. Do you think the same wand will choose you?" she ends up asking.

He merely shrugs and Hermione sighs, knowing she won't worm anything out of him. She drinks the remaining of her butterbeer, enjoying the last swallows before getting up, Harry following behind. They bid the barman goodbye and leave the Leaky Cauldron to head towards the brick wall. Her-mione opens the way and they're quick to step into Diagon Alley. They're surprised by all the wiz-ards and witches roaming up and down the Alley brimming with life, and they freeze.

Hermione reaches for Harry's hand and tightly squeezes them together, as if to anchor herself.

 _This is it_ , she thinks, _this is what I want for the future_.

And as they go forward, slipping between the wizards and owls, Hermione knows she made the right choice.

**xox**

Gringotts is as imposing as Harry remembers it. They easily enter and find an open counter where a goblin with a pointed beard seems to be doing his accounting. They go to him and when he notices them, the goblin sets his purse full of jewels on the side and gives them his attention, his intelligent black eyes scanning the witch and wizard. He asks straightaway, a grin showing his little pointy teeth, "How may I help you?"

A golden sign on his desk shows his name – Mecanik. Harry's glad they didn't come across Griphook who was the Potters accountant in their present. It's one thing less to worry about, he thinks with a bit of relief.

Harry steps nearer and puts his bottomless purse on the counter, not missing the creature's greedy look. "We need to open a Wizarding account."

He doesn't need to say anything else. Goblins aren't the kind to meddle with someone else's busi-ness when they have a good deal coming to them. Mecanik isn't the exception to the rule. He hastens to open the purse and sets to examine the coins under Hermione's surprised eye.

"He's just making sure the coins aren't forged," Harry whispers to a fascinated Hermione.

His comment wins an amused grunt from the goblin. "You seem to be well informed, mister.."

"Durand."

Mecanik rises a Galleon to his face, turning it several times between his nimble fingers. "Oh, Ses-terces? Interesting. It's been a long time since I last saw his coins."

Mecanik sets down the Galleon and goes to scrutinize new coins before closing the purse. He picks a parchment from a hidden drawer under the counter as well as a quill and starts to draw up a con-tract while speaking, "Your coins are legit. Do you know how much you have in your purse?"

"Something around 10 000 Galleons."

"Exact sum of money?"

The warlock shrugs and Mecanik poses in his writing to give him a baleful glare. "Are you going to stock any magical artefacts?"

Harry shakes his head and Mecanik continues, "The vault 1789 is available. Once you put your gold in there, the calculation of your belongings will be automatically made and we'll be able to know how much you have exactly. To whom should I make the account?"

"Harry and Hermione Durand."

"Your spouse?" asks the goblin, eyes drilling into Hermione's.

"Sister."

Mecanik finishes up the contract in a flourish before presenting it to the two clients. "If you could please sign on the dotted line."

They do as asked and Mecanik takes back the parchment before pulling out a long, slim, black key from a new drawer. He jumps from his seat and makes them follow him. They don't need to take the dangerous cart leading to the guts of the bank, their vault being in the newer floors. They go down a spiral staircase with uneven steps that the goblin jumps without even looking where he puts his feet. Mecanik then leads them to a corridor where four doors fit the wall and opens the first one. A huge empty space spreads in front of them.

"Do you need anything else?" the goblin politely asks, but his annoyed look is strongly dissuading them to hold him back any longer.

But Harry doesn't care and nods. "I need to have gold, silver, and bronze bars melted into new series of coins."

Mecanik suddenly seems more inclined to listen and softens his beard with two long fingers, a gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes. "I see. How much are we talking about?"

Harry exchanges a look with Hermione. He didn't care to calculate the bars, but knowing Hermione, she must have done it.

She turns to Mecanik, chin held high, and answers, "If I remember correctly, 660 pounds of gold, 330 pounds of silver and 1102 pounds of bronze."

A spasm runs through the goblin's fingers, as if he could already feel all the gold in his hands. He smiles largely. "Very well. I'll let you organise yourselves, Griphook is waiting for you outside if you have more questions. Once you're done and upstairs, come find me to my counter and I'll see what goblin is available for your order."

When he hears about the goblin who arrived to guard the vault's entrance, Harry struggles to hold in a big sigh. Once again, he thought too quickly. Griphook must be doing his apprenticeship to become an accountant goblin...

Mecanik gives them their key and leaves in a rush. Hermione waits a few minutes before whispering, careful so that Griphook wouldn't overhear them, "Do you have any idea of the gold's price in this time? You'll be twice as rich as before!"

"Hmm. Thank goodness Bill took the time to explain us Gringott's functioning... The goblins could've become suspicious of the doubloon with the Potters' vaults."

She nods, happy to have escaped the problem, and starts to levitate the money in neat Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts piles before doing the same with the bars. When she's done, Harry takes this time a normal purse and fills it.

"It should last us a few months, I put two thousand Galleons in there."

They leave their vault and Griphook leads them back to the counter where they find Mecanik along with another goblin, this one rougher than the one taking care of the clients.

"Ah, Mr Durand, Miss Durand. Let me present you Denarius, one of our finest blacksmiths. He's the one who will be in charge of your order once you sign the contract." As he finishes speaking, he slips a parchment towards them. Harry skims through it, confident Hermione will later scrupulously read it.

"Fine. How much will it cost us?"

Mecanik and Denarius exchange a grin full of teeth. Ensues a series of numbers and percentages to which Hermione gives all her attention, asking here and there more precisions. Finally, Denarius signs the contract and Harry follows suit as well as Hermione. Mecanik carefully puts it away before giving them a copy all the while smiling, hands crossed in front of him.

"It's been a pleasure making business with you, Mr and Miss Durand. Your order should be ready by next week, an owl will be sent to you."

"Thank you. May the gold keep flowing."

"And may the hammer never stop," answers the goblin.

The two time travellers leave the bank and Hermione wraps an arm around Harry's to keep with him in the crowd, heading down Diagon Alley's south part.

"I'm sure a wand will suit you," she tries to comfort him.

Harry prefers to keep quiet.

**xox**

The front of the shop is as high and ran down as it was when they were eleven. The writing 'Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.' gently sparkles under the sun's rays. A quick glance into the shop front shows an empty room, so Harry apprehensively pushes the door open. The door closes after Hermione and they carefully move around. They hardly make three steps before an Olli-vander with silky chestnut hair appears from behind a row of wands rising up the ceiling, a dozen of narrow boxes haphazardly balanced in the cradle of his arms. He comes to a full stop, watching them with big, bright blue eyes over his boxes before giving a startled jump and settles his burden with great care on the only chair of the shop.

"Well, well, well... what a surprise."

Ollivander slowly comes to them, a hand already stretched as if he wanted to grab them and study them.

"It's not often adult wizards come into my shop without having already bought a wand here... I remember each and every one of my clients," he says, pensive. "But perhaps my father sold you your wands?"

"Er... We've been living in France the last few years. We studied there instead of Hogwarts," Hermione explains quickly.

Garrick Ollivander doesn't appear older than them, just into his early twenties. His enthusiasm for wand making is already present, and his appearance is less dishevelled than in the future. Hermione could even say he's elegant in his cobalt robes opened on his pearly white shirt, the sleeves pushed back to his elbows. He nods and gets his enchanted measuring tape, looking back and forth between the two friends, wordlessly asking who will be first. Hermione nudges Harry towards the man who turns shining eyes on her.

"I assume you already possess a wand, then."

As she nods, he continues, leaving his tape to hover around the other costumer who tenses when it wraps itself around his head, "What wood and how long? What core was used? Any characteristic?"

A moment of panic strikes the witch speechless. She obviously can't tell him about her wand – he may have already made it, and even though it wasn't the case, Ollivander's the only one in his craft currently using Phoenix, Dragon and Unicorn cores. How a student from Beauxbâtons could've ob-tained one without coming into his shop? Then the penny drops and she blurts, "9½'' rosewood, with a Veela hair core. I was told it's rather inflexible."

Maybe it wasn't a good idea given the interested gleam in the warlock's eyes. Fleur's wand had always left him perplexed since, according to him, a Veela's hair is an unpredictable and impracticable component.

Harry, who meanwhile attempted to unsuccessfully escape the measuring tape, stumbles upon the chair overflowing with wands and barely avoids falling on the ground, catching Ollivander's attention who seems to suddenly remember he has a costumer to tend to.

"Have you ever owned a wand, mister..."

"Durand. Yes."

His sharp answer doesn't seem to affect Ollivander who asks, curious, "May I know of its composi-tion and length?"

Harry inhales and keeps his breath in several seconds before saying in a controlled voice, "With all due respect, sir, it's none of your business."

Faced with the categorical tone, the wand maker chooses to let it go – wands, after all, are a sensitive matter – and takes back his tape, an intrigued noise leaving his mouth when he sees the measurements. "Hmm, interesting... A very flexible right arm, callous and slightly curved in hand... You're accustomed to use your wand to excess, am I right?" he asks without waiting for an answer before saying, "Yes, I think I have what you need!"

He goes straight away between the rows and shelves to carefully extract a box he offers Harry. "Try this one. 8¾" acacia wood, Dragon heartstring. Everything is in the flexibility."

Harry takes it with an unsure hand. He closes his fingers around the handle and the wand vibrates before stopping, as if to express its displeasure. Ollivander furrows his brows. "How curious, I could've sworn that... Or perhaps another kind of wood... Yes, yes, that must be it."

He disappears and comes back with a dusty box. He blows on it, nearly making his customer choke on the grey cloud. The wand is longer than the previous one and its dark wood melts nicely into the handle carved with circulars shapes.

"This is one of my first creations," Garrick says with an obvious affection. "12'' pine wood, Unicorn hair. Slightly rigid, but excellent for Charm works and defence."

With a firmer hand, Harry grasps the wand. This time, nothing happens, and only a few seconds pass before Ollivander takes it back and goes to wander between the rows, a puzzled look on his face.

"Unbelievable! Ah, here we goes..." He strides back and urges the wizard to try the new wand.

This one is made of deep red melting into a delicate shade of orange on the rounded handle.

"15¾" red oak wood, Dragon heartstring. It tends to cast spells before they are finished, but nothing a bit of training can't correct. Perfect for duelling."

The wand is warm in his hand and gives a slight hum, but nothing more. This is by far the best reaction, but it doesn't suit Ollivander who takes back the wand, puts it in its box and pushes it back in its shelf. He seems lost in thoughts and is miles away from the excited man who took Harry as a challenge the first time around. Finally, he makes a sudden about-turn and gives Harry a long look.

"Tell me about you, Mr Durand."

His customer purses his lips, clearly reluctant, and Ollivander hurries to explain himself, "Your measurements seem to disagree with your personality. It's rare I make this much mistakes when selecting components. Clearly, you've changed since childhood; this is also why it's easier for a youth to find their wand than it is for an adult."

Silence falls down on the shop. Ollivander is ready to drop the matter and go through all his wands, but Hermione stops him by uttering in a small voice, "He was a shy but loyal boy. He enjoyed the pranks played on him..."

Ollivander scrutinises both of them. "Really?" he whispers. "How interesting... And his current personality?"

"Still as loyal as ever. And loving," she utters while looking at Harry, "Strong, but fair."

As she doesn't add anything else, reticent to talk more than necessary about her friend, Ollivander thinks for a moment before darting behind his counter where another row of shelves awaits him. He rummages through the lower shelves, inches only above the floor.

"Do you know that the wood, as much as the core, plays an essential role in the making of a wand? Each wood has a unique attribute, this is why it's so arduous to find a way to incorporate the core without cancelling the wood's properties. Of course, once the two are combined, we get the perfect element and a unique wand for each witch and wizard, in harmony with their magic."

He retrieves a box and shows it to Harry.

"You're a complex man, Mr Durand. I don't think this will be the one, but it'll help me to adjust my research. Try it. 10½" spruce wood, Unicorn hair. Surprisingly swishy. This kind of wand requires a firm hand, but once the right partner is found, it can produce spectacular effects."

Sparkles sprout from the tip of the wand in a wiz similar to fireworks, and Harry startles and nearly drops the wand. Ollivander takes it right from his fingers to puts another one in the weak grip.

"I see, I see! That's more like it! Try this one," he carries on with drive, ready to finally take on the challenge. "12½" pear wood, Dragon heartstring. Slightly bendy but very sturdy! I never saw one in the hand of a Dark Wizard."

Curious about the choice of the golden wand, Harry twirls it between his fingers. A flash comes out and blows off a piece of counter. Ollivander whisks it from his hands and runs to find another box before coming back, looking a bit hesitant.

"I never would've thought about suggesting this choice, but after all... Contrary to the others, this wand was made recently, only a few months ago. 11'' holly wood, Phoenix feather. Nice and supple!"

He hands it to Harry who can't breathe.

"Few wands are made with this core, but this feather was willingly given by the phoenix which it comes from... Go ahead, try it."

With shaky fingers, Harry takes the wand. It has a familiar weight in his hand, and he can instantly feel his magic humming under his skin, calling to the wand so they could finally be united. The effect doesn't take long: a burst of gold tangled with red comes out, even larger than the first time, enlightening the shop and painting the walls with reddish and golden sparkles. Ollivander lets out a cheerful exclamation and applauds.

"Wonderful! Such power! I wasn't expecting such a show... Holly wood and phoenix core don't mix that well, but this wand is just exquisite," he tells them while giving Harry a furtive look he can't begin to understand. "This wand will be perfect for you, I'm sure."

Hermione presses a hand to her mouth, smothering her surprised cry. She's as flabbergasted as Harry, never having thought he would receive the same wand. She feels a jolt of worry when thinking about the future Harry, but chooses to focus on her present friend who watches his wand with great tenderness.

"How much will it be?" he eventually asks in a hoarse voice.

"7 Galleons, please. Do you want me to pack it for you?"

Harry shakes his head and squeezes his wand. "No. I like to have it in my hand. I'm glad it chose me."

The wand maker lifts a brow. "Really, now? It's not often a wizard understands the nuance," he points out thoughtfully.

Harry pays hurriedly the wand maker to avoid any further questioning. Once outside the shop, they finish their shopping (Floo Powder, potions and all sorts of ingredients to take care of their deterio-rated health, tailored clothes for them and Tom made by Madam Malkin and finally, a detour to Flourish and Blotts where Hermione gushes over books that had been no longer printed back in their time). Hermione reduces their purchases that she slips in her pocket and they go to a Disapparition area. Harry reaches for her and focuses on their destination; they spun on their heels and vanish in a loud _crack_.

They put away their newly bought stuff in their rooms and Hermione takes it upon herself to arrange the one Tom will be using before Harry decides to join her.

He stares at her for a while, leaning against the door's frame. She's adjusting the lilac blankets, hav-ing already taken care of the rest of the room, presenting a comfortable space with serene colours. Once she's pleased with her work, she sits down and invites Harry to come in.

After a silent moment, she says, "I know this situation is far from pleasant to you... I understand, really. But try and forget what you know about Voldemort and try to get to know Tom. Give him a chance to grow up normally, to become someone good."

For long minutes, Harry doesn't say anything, even though his furrowed brows show how much this is unconceivable. He pulls out his wand from his sleeve and twirls it slowly between his fingers. It's strange to see it with such a smooth and varnished wood.

"I don't know if he can change, Hermione."

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugs. He doesn't want to tell her that even though he's glad to have his wand back, he can't help but be disappointed. Ollivander, the first time, told him its brother was Voldemort's. So what conclusion could he make now that his wand chose him again? Is history doomed to repeat itself? But Hermione isn't stupid. She spent years at his sides and learnt to understand him with one look, one twitch, one too long sigh. She doesn't excel at it like Ron did, but it's enough to hear what Harry doesn't want to say.

She takes his hand in hers, eyes fastened on the wand, and decides to reveal something that worries her since they started to play with the time line. "Do you know what Ollivander told me before we left him at Shell Cottage?"

He shrugs again. Garrick Ollivander was a mysterious man, a tad too aware of everything to Harry's taste who always preferred listening to him with only an ear, afraid of what the man could say.

"He told me something I'll always remember."

At this, Harry is all ears. He knows the witch isn't the kind to believe every absurdities that seem to be the founding principles of the Wizarding society. She always was rational, which would also explain her disdain for the Divination art while at Hogwarts.

"Why is that?"

She plays with his fingers, eyes unseeing.

"Because I think it was some sort of warning... It's also why I was reluctant to rewrite the past." Hermione takes a deep breath and looks straight at him, worried. "Harry, he said... He said that magic never forgets."

It doesn't take more for Harry to understand her anxiousness. The mere fact that his wand chose him again validates the warning. And if what Ollivander said was true, the persons who were the most subjected to their magical waves will feel something is amiss with the "Durands". Which would also explain why the young Garrick seemed more pensive than usual...

There's only one word to describe how Harry feels at the news.

"Shit."

**xox**

 

When they arrive at the orphanage a few days later, Mrs Cole is happy to let them sign the last adoption papers and once they pay off the amount requested by the orphanage, she leads them to the large corridor they crossed their first visit. The young Tom awaits them, obediently sitting on a bench, wearing pants made of brown tweed and a small grey woollen jacket, a beanie pushed down his eyebrows on his head, plastering his brown hair on his forehead. He looks tiny, sitting alone in a greyish corridor, eyes locked onto his slowly swinging feet.

"Tom!" Mrs Cole calls out to him, making him jump. "The Dursleys are here."

The boy quickly stands up, nearly stumbling in his haste. He avoids staring at Harry straight in the eyes, cowed by the tall man, and prefers to focus on the more welcoming face of Hermione. He of-fers a shy hello to which the woman answers with a quick smile whereas Harry just nods.

"Did you say goodbye to your friends?" Hermione asks quietly.

Tom shrugs. "I don't really have any..."

Harry keeps himself from groaning and shakes Mrs Cole's hand, eager to leave the dull building. "Thank you for all you did, we'll take our leave now."

Harry strides ahead of them and leads the way while Hermione slows down to let Tom catch up with them. The child turns around for the last time, waves hesitantly at Mrs Cole who waves back, and he turns back, doing his best to keep in track with the adults. He finally can leave this morose place where nobody wants him. He has some kind of 'family' now, and it's more than he ever hoped to get.

"Where are we going?" he finally asks in a small voice when they're out.

"To our cottage, in Northumberland."

Hearing this, the kid's eyes dramatically widen. He's always been curious and studious, even though the orphanage's women didn't care about his grades as long as he didn't cause any trouble. He knows the United Kingdom map – not by heart, but almost – and he knows Northumberland is in the far north, miles and miles away from London, where they currently are.

Miss Dursley must feel sorry for him as she explains, "The Leaky Cauldron isn't far from here, we'll take Floo Powder to get to Shore Cottage. It's a relatively sure way allowing wizards and witches to travel from a fireplace to another in a blink of an eye!"

"Neat," he whispers, awed.

But as excited as he is, Tom doesn't manage to hide his anxiety when Mr Dursley disappears in a burst of green flames and it's his turn to enter the burning hearth.

"Don't be afraid, the fire is harmless once you throw the powder in."

She shows him what to do, and Tom complies. As the fire turns emerald green, she reminds him to not mispronounce his destination, or else he'll land in an alien place. "And be careful when you breathe in to not swallow ashes."

He nods and utters, not so confident, "Shore Cottage!" and he vanishes in a blast of fire. After a few seconds passed whirling round what seems to be hundreds of chimneys, he's spat out of the hearth and crashes into the wizard waiting for them.

"Sorry, Mr Dursley," he mutters as he quickly recoils. A grunt answers him.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them, and Tom finds himself hoping Miss Dursley won't be too long to arrive. He doesn't have anything against Mr Dursley, but the man makes him ill at ease and doesn't seem to appreciate him much. He's not stupid, he knows Miss Dursley isn't extremely fond of him either, always sure to leave at least an arm distance between them. Her tone is courte-ous when talking to him, but there's no tenderness there – and after all, why should there be any? They are strangers. But at least, Miss Dursley is more subtle than Mr Dursley who stares at him with hard eyes, arms tightly crossed against his chest, a sign of rejection.

He's about to open his mouth and say anything to fill the quietness but Mr Dursley forestalls him, "It's Mr Durand."

He doesn't have the time to ask why they gave another name to the orphanage (and he can't help but think it's fishy) that the fire behind him blows and he startles when Miss Dursle— _Durand_ comes out. She looks at them in turn, feeling the tense air in the room, before moving towards Mr Durand and lacing her am with his.

Tom hunches his shoulders, not daring to look at the two adults who, suddenly, seem as tall and imposing as a prison wall.

It's going to be a long night.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I know, super slow with the updates. In my defence, studying abroad is a bitch and I don't get as much time as I'd like to play with Rescribo...! I promise, I'll try (key word being try) to be better come June :)
> 
> Leave a word on your way out, it feeds my imagination ;)


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